The War of the Worlds
The church bells that had ceased a fortnight since
suddenly caught the news, until all England was bell-
ringing. Men on cycles, lean-faced, unkempt, scorched
along every country lane shouting of unhoped
deliverance, shouting to gaunt, staring figures of despair.
And for the food! Across the Channel, across the Irish
Sea, across the Atlantic, corn, bread, and meat were
tearing to our relief. All the shipping in the world seemed
going Londonward in those days. But of all this I have no
memory. I drifted—a demented man. I found myself in a
house of kindly people, who had found me on the third
day wandering, weeping, and raving through the streets of
St. John’s Wood. They have told me since that I was
singing some insane doggerel about ‘The Last Man Left
Alive! Hurrah! The Last Man Left Alive!’ Troubled as
they were with their own affairs, these people, whose
name, much as I would like to express my gratitude to
them, I may not even give here, nevertheless cumbered
themselves with me, sheltered me, and protected me from
myself. Apparently they had learned something of my
story from me during the days of my lapse.
Very gently, when my mind was assured again, did
they break to me what they had learned of the fate of
Leather- head. Two days after I was imprisoned it had
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